Chapter 1

When the car crashed, my husband shielded me with his body and saved both me and the baby I was carrying.

But last week, he suddenly took me to the hospital, had a large amount of blood drawn from me, and I lost the baby.

Then yesterday, I came across a TikTok video.

A woman had posted it with the caption: [What is love? ]

[Love is when a man's wife miscarries three times and finally gets pregnant again, but the second I say I'm dizzy, he tricks his pregnant wife into giving me blood. Even if the baby is lost, he still saves me first.]

In the video, the man had an arm around the woman's slim waist as he buttoned up her clothes for her, and her chest was covered in marks.

The scar on his arm was in the exact same place as my husband's.

I gripped my phone so hard my knuckles hurt, then typed into the comments with trembling fingers: [How did you meet a man who loves you that much?]

The woman replied as if she'd finally found someone to brag to: [He's a painter, and he's my boss too. He's brilliant and deeply devoted. ]

[Three years ago, he injured his right arm in a car accident while saving his wife. He almost never held a brush again.]

[But no matter how deep love runs, it can't survive someone driving a wedge between two people, right? During his darkest days, I stayed by his side day and night. I took care of everything for him, even that. That's how feelings grow.]

My fingers paused over the screen.

My husband was a painter too.

Three years ago, I was in a car accident too, and my husband had shielded me with his body.

She added: [Last week, I got dizzy from anemia, and the hospital didn't have any Rh-negative blood on hand. So he brought his pregnant wife in during the middle of the night. They drew so much blood from her that she miscarried. ]

[Then he lied and said the baby had chromosomal problems.]

It felt like a bucket of ice water had been dumped over my head.

I was Rh-negative too, and I had just lost a baby.

Late Friday night last week, Charles Evans had shaken me awake, "Come on. We're going to the hospital."

Half asleep, I mumbled, "Why are we going this late?"

"Prenatal checkup. I know a doctor there, an OB specialist. I want him to take a look at the baby."

But the moment we arrived, a nurse came over with a needle and started drawing my blood.

I could hear a woman coughing behind the curtain.

Then Charles told me the truth: "She's the daughter of one of our shareholders. If anything happens to her, I'll be in a real bind. Give her a little blood."

I froze. "I'm pregnant!"

He crouched, took my hand, and signaled the doctor to continue. "A little blood won't hurt. Don't make this hard for me."

Halfway through, my lips turned purple and my lower belly began to cramp.

The nurse rushed over and said they had to stop because the mom-to-be was in danger.

Charles only said, "Keep going. She can handle it."

When I woke up again, he was sitting beside my bed with red-rimmed eyes. "Stella, the baby had chromosomal problems. We couldn't save it."

I cried until I blacked out more than once.

It was already my fourth lost child, and back then, I blamed myself completely.

But that woman's words planted doubt in me.

I had to find out for myself what had really happened.

Looking at the photo by my bed of Charles and me smiling over a prenatal report after surviving the crash, I hesitated, then messaged him.

I sent: [Honey, I'm not feeling well. Come with me to the hospital.]

He replied: [Stella, I'm working on a painting. I'll go with you a little later.]

I waited for two full hours.

In the end, I went to the hospital alone and said, "Please pull up the records for my baby's supposed chromosomal problem."

The nurse recognized me and looked confused, "Ms. Linwood, your miscarriage was caused by excessive blood loss. It reduced blood flow to the placenta and triggered contractions. It wasn't a chromosomal issue at all."

Her words were like an icy blade through my heart.

A sharp pain rose again in my lower belly.

In three years, I'd gotten pregnant four times and miscarried four times.

Every year, I ran to the hospital hundreds of times.

I took fertility meds and pregnancy-support meds until they made me nauseous and vomit.

I'd nearly destroyed myself just to give him a child.

Fighting the pain in my belly, I slowly made my way out while holding the wall.

My phone chimed. That woman had posted another TikTok update with the caption: [I casually mentioned wanting a painting of red plum blossoms from him, and he took it to heart. I never expected him to do it in such a one-of-a-kind way.]

In the video was my husband, the same man who had no time to accompany me to the hospital because he was supposedly "working on a painting."

With a brush heavy with paint, he was painting red plum blossoms across that woman's bare, pale back with obvious enjoyment on his face.